The World Has Made Us So
by violetlerdyn
Summary: Sherlock Holmes could not give a damn that his hand is bleeding on the carpet and that there is a man he doesn't know staring at him in the hallway. The man he doesn't know has sunken eyes and his shoulders sit heavily, dragging him down. He does not know this man but he knows his name and he knew that once, long ago, he did not look like this.


**Another BBC Sherlock fic! I think I'm on a roll? Anyways, I felt the need to do a Post-reichenbach fic and here it is. It's simple, and unbeta'd, so mistakes are probably made.**

**Enjoy!**

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He collected names, now. They were simple to find, really. It was tracking that name to a person and that person to a place and getting close enough to the place to get close enough to the person to eventually find a way to dash their names off the never-ending list that made it difficult. He did not think he would finish the task easily. It is why he left so quickly and so finally.

He did not know if he would ever be back, but he dreamed of it. He dreamed of nights sitting in his chair by the fireplace and hearing the shuffling of familiar footsteps in the kitchen while the kettle boiled and then the steady hands of his flat mate resting a cup of steaming tea in his hands. A plea, most times. He would notice the edge of a worried line forming at the ends of the man's eyes and wonder at why the man cared so much to put it there.

He wanted to reach up and smooth it away. He longed so many times to touch, and feel the skin he was sure was rough from sun and sand and the work.

Now all he feels is the cold steel of a gun in his hands and the judging eyes of those he catches up to. They burned through him sometimes, but he found that he could always stare harder. He eventually finds himself reveling in the light going out of their eyes when he gets close enough to whisper their wrongs into their ears.

If he is a monster than the world has made him so; or at least, a certain man has.

Moriarty was insane; brilliant, but insane. He was glad to be rid of him despite the unexpected way he chose to disappear. A gunshot to the head was about the only thing he seemed to find surprising that day. Just like the consulting criminal, he had come prepared.

The nights spent in dodgy bedsits where the light filtered in, pallid and unkind to his eyes, made him miss Baker Street so much that he would burn with it. When the nights became cold as the months passed, he realized it was less of the flat and more of the man he shared it with that he missed most.

John Watson.

His wounded army doctor had realized that Sherlock Holmes had died to save lives. He'd left his phone on the roof for a reason, after all. It was in the papers, and he dyed his hair again that week just to be sure that no one would recognize him. John would be happy, as he was no longer seen as a fraud, but a hero.

He did not feel like one. He'd never felt like one.

There came a time, eventually, where he met his last match. And he could not say how long it had been until he finally picked up a tabloid at a newsstand afterwards. Watching Sebastian Moran finally crumble beneath his hands was worth the three years.

It was worth the horrible hole that rested in his chest and the inexplicable cravings for cocaine. Both seemed to filter through his thought process and rip him apart. It was worth leaving behind the life he had built for himself to completely destroy the one thing that threatened it all. It was worth leaving behind John Watson, that is, until he finally emerges from Molly's town home with directions to his former flat mate's cheaper residence. It is until he sees what he'd left behind.

There is glass on the floor where the window broke. It looks like stars, reflected in this light. He recalls the sight of stars and finds that they only became important when someone long ago reminded him that they were all planets and suns and galaxies; beautiful. Rain comes in through the curtains, creating puddles and the damp smell of London throughout the room.

Sherlock Holmes could not give a damn that his hand is bleeding on the carpet and that there is a man he doesn't know staring at him in the hallway. The man he doesn't know has sunken eyes and his shoulders sit heavily, dragging him down.

He does not know this man but he knows his name and he knew that once, long ago, he did not look like this.

John Watson stands, cane in one hand and plastic bags loosely grasped in the other. They drip on the floor. He does not notice that he is also dripping, and that his hood has not yet uncloaked his head.

Sherlock Holmes stares at John Watson and waits.

"Dead." The man whispers. The rain almost drowns it out. "You are dead."

"Observe, John." Sherlock holds up his hand, the cuts still oozing with red across his pale skin.

John Watson breathes; as though he is reminded he has lungs and sinks into the doorway. The bags drop alongside the cane, and Sherlock is too far away to stop the man from following them. There is a sound of fabric rustling and the thunk of a body hitting wooden floors hard.

"Damn." Sherlock breathes out.

The rain continues on and John Watson lies in a heap on the floor. Sherlock forgets his bleeding hand and the broken window. The bags get placed in the kitchen, on the floor where they create a small puddle. He leaves the dreaded cane in the hall.

It takes a few minutes to get John into the flat and propped against the legs of a chair. Despite having lost weight since last seeing him, John is still a broader man. Sherlock takes in the relaxed expression John has in sleep, the dark circles under his eyes almost hidden by his lashes. The stress of three years shown in the way he still has lines at the edges of his mouth and in his forehead.

John opens his eyes slowly and hitches a breath before letting out a loud groan at seeing the detective in front of him. Sherlock moves back, just in case the man decides to punch him. It is still a possibility.

"Tea, John." Sherlock stands and heads into the kitchen where he retrieves an electric kettle. He runs his hand underneath the faucet, realizing that the damage is not bad. Breaking the window from the fire escape was the only way in without picking locks, and Sherlock was rather tired. The bleeding had stopped, at least.

John does not speak, but there is a shuffling from the room that indicates he has lifted himself up from the floor and is now sitting in the small chair. When Sherlock comes in and hands him the steaming mug, John takes it warily and stares up at him with wide eyes. He sets the mug down carefully and stands up.

"Not dead, then." John murmurs.

"Not dead."

"I know why you jumped and everything. Made it a little harder to hate you in the end."

"I am sorry, John." Sherlock lets his hands fall out of his pockets and he raises his eyes to meet the shorter man's.

"No, Sherlock you _died_. You left me a-alone." John's face suddenly crumples, his anger seeping into something different and far more terrifying.

Sherlock steps forward, into the shorter man's space so that he is almost looming over him. He places a fragile hand on the man's shaking shoulders. John has his head down, shielded away from Sherlock.

"I did not realize you would be so affected." Sherlock says.

John slowly places a shaking hand on the wool of his coat. It steadies against his chest and he breathes in, speeding his heartbeat so that the man would be reassured. Perhaps it is all he can do.

"You were all I had in my life, Sherlock. You brought me out of that dark flat after everything and you lit up my whole life." John whispers.

"Please know that you did the same for me." Sherlock admits.

John pauses for a long moment. Then he bursts out laughing. It is loud, and hysterical, but it makes him look up at the detective with shining eyes and something bittersweet in his smile.

"Not exactly a healthy relationship, yeah?" John grins.

Sherlock returns it, relief flooding through him. The probability of John punching him gradually decreases. But John always surprises him.

The punch sends him flying back, enough to crash into the desk on the wall at the other side of the room. Sherlock feels a white pain blooming beneath his skin, and for a moment his vision goes dark, but when he returns he is holding a hand to his cheek and looking back at a grim faced John Watson.

"Don't ever do it again." John says. "That's also for the window." He gestures to the broken thing, still leaking with water.

Sherlock stares dumbly at him for a few long seconds before he realizes that John is walking towards him. There is concern in his eyes and a strange determination. It is not long before he is surprised again by the doctor. John grips the lapels of his jacket and pins him fully against the desk before yanking him down and smashing his lips against his.

Sherlock's mind goes utterly blank for a moment before he realizes all the new data presented. John. _John kissing him_. He fists his hands in the man's ridiculous jumper underneath his jacket and proceeds to return the kiss. And it is new and wonderful. There is a heat filling him that erupts somewhere low in his stomach when John gently bites his lower lip and swipes his tongue against it only a moment later. He groans into the shorter man's mouth and John is pulling away. _Too soon_. Sherlock follows his lips, his warmth, and comes in contact with the man's forehead.

They lean their foreheads against each other; John's lips are red and swollen. His cheeks are flushed. Sherlock knows he looks just as disheveled. He is completely undone by this man. This man he went three years without and is now standing fully against him and breathing warm exhales on his cheeks.

Sherlock reaches up and cups the man's face in his large hands. John opens his eyes, staring fully at the taller man. The detective traces the various lines of John's face and revels in the smoothness of it. There is no grit and sand and hardness there. He wonders at it, and John sighs lightly. He smells like London rain and sunlight and tea.

"I'm still convincing myself that you are really here." John says against his lips.

Sherlock smiles, one hand travelling to the man's neck where soft hair rests just above the collar of his jumper. "As am I, John." He says.

Outside, the rain drums on against the city of London and for a certain consulting detective, the only one in the world, a man he knows is standing in front of him and perhaps he always will be.

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**Thanks for reading!**


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